“You can't always believe what the papers say,” returned Stangeist curtly; and, taking a scribbling pad from the desk, began to check up the packages.
Clarie Deane's cigar had gone out. He rolled the short stub in his mouth, and leaned forward.
The bills were evidently just as they had been delivered to the murdered paymaster at the bank, done up with little narrow paper bands in packages of one hundred notes each, save for a small bundle of loose bills which latter, with the rolls of silver, Stangeist swept to one side of the desk.
Package by package, Stangeist went on jotting the amounts down on the pad.
“Nix!” growled Clarie Deane suddenly. “Cut that out! Them's fivers in that wad. Make that five hundred instead of one—I'm onter yer!”
“Mistake,” said Stangeist suavely, changing the figures with his pencil. “You're pretty wide awake for this time of night, aren't you, Clarie?”
“Oh, I dunno!” responded Clarie Deane gruffly. “Not so very!”
Stangeist, finished with the packages, picked up the loose bills, and, with a short laugh, tossed them into the bag and followed them with the rolls of silver. He pushed the bag toward Clarie Deane.
“That's a little extra for you,” he said. “The trouble with you fellows is that you don't know when you're well off—but the sooner you find it out the better, unless you want another lesson like yesterday.” He made the addition on the pad. “Fifteen thousand, eight hundred dollars,” he announced softly. “That's seven thousand, nine hundred for the three of you to divide, less five hundred from The Mope.”
Clarie Deane's eyes narrowed. His hands were on his knees, hidden by the desk.